c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(10-25)
“The thing about the NFL is nobody cares. Nobody feels bad for you. Nobody feels sorry for you... They don’t care if you’re hurt. They don’t care if you don’t feel good. You have a bad call. Play goes against you? No one cares. You’ve got to play. You’ve got to win.” – Greg Olsen
I first became aware of professional football as a kid in the 1960s.
Because I was the son of a theologian and scholar, someone with no interest in athletic competition, the likelihood that I would find myself attracted to such things was slight at best. Yet with tales of gridiron glory coming from the maternal side of my brood, a bloodline decidedly blue-collar and earthy, I was attracted to the budding sport in ways that defied being quantified. The primitive physicality of moving a laced pigskin from one end of a regulated field, to the other, seemed logical. Even when my own ability to conceptualize and comprehend had barely grown past the stage of an infant.
Those yonder days were experimental and evolutionary. Though NFL history had already encompassed years of competition, the upstart AFL had offered a different slant on the game that was undeniably popular. In addition, the rise of broadcast television as an important medium made their product available to many viewers that had never attended an event in person. The eventual result came as an epiphany for team owners and league officials. Cooperation was key. Creating what would become the Super Bowl, and merging the two distinct factions into one united entity, made good business sense. I watched all of this happen through eyes that were wide and youthful. With no pretense of past habits or traditions holding me back. It was easy to embrace this new paradigm. And I did so from afar, as the Ice household moved again and again, during the course of my upbringing.
Some members of my family latched onto the Cincinnati Bengals franchise, because they were already followers of Reds baseball. The Paul Brown creation quickly had a lively fanbase in Columbus, our original point of origin, in addition to their home market. But as we meandered from state to state, I watched eagerly without any specific loyalty to one group over another. In Virginia, a friend from who had arrived from Florida followed the Miami Dolphins. When outside of Pittsburgh, classmates in school worshipped the Steelers. Though they viewed me with suspicion, being a native of Ohio. In New York, I had friends who spoke of the Buffalo Bills with admiration and fealty. Or perhaps, the Jets and Giants, though both were distant from the Finger Lakes, culturally and geographically. Finally, upon returning to my native soil, I landed near the shore of Lake Erie. There, I settled on the Cleveland Browns as my focal point for enjoying the sport, in earnest. That decision, a product of circumstance, sired an adventure of joy and sorrow that continued for decades to come.
For those in that notable population center, or Cuyahoga County, and across the northcoast, historical facts relating to the team have become legendary. Bernie Kosar is a literal patron saint to those who have suffered for their faith. Otto Graham, Jim Brown, Lou Groza, and so many others have become immortal in memory. The spiritual battle between loyalists who refuse to trade their honor for the cheap allure of championship rings and bragging rights, and traitors who have adopted out-of-town clubs to heal their disappointment, continues to blaze. Yet most recently, with a new season underway, I have realized that the inspirational experience of watching these modern-day gladiators going to war, has faded. After many rounds of losing, losing, and losing again, I have lost the tingle of excitement over playing the role of a sideline participant. In its place, numbness and indifference have filled this void. Instead of a vital play-by-play on the radio, I hear the Ramones track, ‘I Don’t Care’ streaming from my wireless device.
“I don’t care (He don’t care)
I don’t care (He don’t care)
I don’t care about this world
I don’t care about that girl
I don’t care (He don’t care)
I don’t care (He don’t care)
I don’t care (He don’t care)
I don’t care about these words
I don’t care about that girl
I don’t care (he don’t care)
I don’t care
I don’t care...”
For the first time since my youngest days, I now feel nothing as a spectator.
Any attempt to chart the point at which this transition occurred has failed. Red Right 88, by proxy? The Drive? The Fumble? Art Modell babbling doublespeak and disinformation, before moving the original Browns to Balitmore? Ownership changes, coach and front-office firings? Quarterback chaos? Injuries and humiliation on the field? The headline saga of Baker Mayfield, and his prosperous ressurection, elsewhere? The foolhardy and disastrous trade for Deshaun Watson? I have endured them all.
Something different accompanied the start of play for this most recent season, however.
A metaphorical lightning bolt struck from the heavens. With a gaggle of signal callers on the roster, and flagging hope for improvement on the turf, suddenly, I found myself inactive as a patron. Cold and dead on the inside. Peering at the dual screens of my television and phone with barely a hint of bygone emotions lingering. It represented a change that was most unwelcome. One certainly not accepted with grace.
On Sunday, listening to press conference in the aftermath only deepened my gloom. The familiar mantra of having to do better... to do better... to do better... had worn thin by repetition. I had heard it so many times that the phrase stung my ears. I had to slap both sides of my head to clear the static. Only then could I think clearly, and consider leaving the league behind.
“DO BETTER? DO BETTER? WE’VE GOT TO DO BETTER? WE’VE BEEN HEARING THOSE EXCUSES SINCE THE TEAM RETURNED IN 1999! WHEN THE HELL DO THINGS ACTUALLY GET ANY BETTER? WHEN, WHEN, WHEN?”
A faint memory of my fandom must have still been in effect. Because despite watching yet another defeat occur in real time, I still craved pizza and hot wings. And an adult libation. Lots and lots of cold, refreshing beer. That in itself was enough, I reckoned.
I was still a fan. At least of filling my belly.
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